Fugue, page 99
“I can understand that. You use him as a transformer and don’t let him keep any of the power.”
“Exactly. I still have to keep his contained matrix as an antenna to draw in the faith energy, though.”
“All right, knowing all this, why don’t we do the kill, contain, and consume routine to the other gods of Tauta? You could start with the God of Wizards and expand from there. Or isn’t this practical?”
“Because they’re still bigger than I am. I have a greater energy reserve, but they’re stronger. I run marathons; they’re bodybuilders. Remember, I’m still trying to bulk up on nuclear steroids. And there’s no point to having anything close to a fair fight. If I get into it with another god, even if I win, I’ll have expended so much force I’ll be in no shape to resist if anyone else shows up. Weakened, we’ll both be food for a third party. The one who starts this process is likely to be the second one who gets turned into a cow on the divinity ranch.
“Worse, this sort of fight won’t turn an immediate profit in energy terms. The fight, the dismemberment, the antenna conversion, the containment—all that will require more energy than you can immediately get out of the god in question. The benefit comes from taking the resources of the loser over time. In theory, I could do this, but I would already have to have a clear superiority to make it possible, by which time it really isn’t worth it.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Back to the whole jungle problem. Rahýfel needs to ascend immediately?”
“That, or he has to cut off his connection with the God of Wizards.”
“To future-quote a whiny wizard, ‘But whyyyyyy? Why right nowwww?’”
“Because if the new guy up here comes across your patron deity and tries to eat him, he’ll definitely notice the person acting as his avatar.”
“Hold it! You mean if the Shere Khan of your jungle jumps you—”
“He’ll get you, too. Yes. At least, he’ll notice you, since you’re only a sort-of avatar. If you’re in Tauta, anyway. It’s not easy being intimately connected to a celestial entity.”
My reply was vulgar but not unwarranted.
“Ask Leisel,” he replied. “She’s usually up for it.”
“Later. We really need to figure out a way to get you your own avatar instead of half-assing it with me.”
“Let me know what you come up with. Meanwhile, you should tell Rahýfel—”
“How about we clone me inside a extra-large divinity dynamo so you can attune the empty body for your own use?”
So that’s what I look like when I’m stunned speechless.
“I mean,” I went on, “as I understand it, when the Boojum told a group of irradiated priests to sacrifice themselves in the Darkwood, he miraculously combined their bodies into a single body, using their willing human sacrifice energies to power the transformation and possession. I figure if we start with a genetic structure reasonably attuned to you already, grow it in a celestial-energy field matching yours, and do it specifically so you can operate the thing, it should be your avatar. Am I wrong? Have I missed something in the theory?”
He repeated my earlier comment. It was profane, to say the least.
“No, thanks,” I told him. “I’m not that much of a narcissist. Besides, it would have to be my clone, and that would be weird.”
“Can you clone yourself? Without bringing along your chaos infection?”
“How would I know? I haven’t tried. On the one hand, it would seem I don’t pass it on to any offspring, but that may be an effect of the mother’s resistance to the infection. It takes deliberate effort to make a nightlord-type vampire.
“On the other hand, we’re talking about cells—or cell nuclei—taken directly from my body. It’s not a blood cell, obviously, but it is an actual piece of me. I don’t know how it works. Not yet,” I added.
“You know, if you find you can’t clone yourself without creating a soulless nightlord monster, we might try it with just some random person. If you grow a body from a single cell, we can take as long as we need for me to imprint on it. We might not need to clone you, specifically.”
“Fair enough. Who would you suggest?”
“Let me get back to you. This is… something. If this works, I could have a physical avatar at each of my dynamo farms. I could have one here in Tauta.”
“And I would be largely off the hook for dealing with sudden problems.”
“Aha! Enlightened self-interest!”
“Give the job to a lazy man,” I recited.
“I’ll see what I can find in the way of likely genetic donors.”
“Just say the word. I know where I can find cloning equipment. If we can’t get it to work ourselves, I can find someplace where cloning is a mature technology and pay someone to do it. Regardless, we can time-ticker the hell out of it so we don’t waste time here.”
“I’m for it. But, back on the subject of wasted time?”
“Yes?”
“Rahýfel. Get him off the fence. He needs to either go fully mortal or fully divine, and he needs to do it pronto. The God of Wizards doesn’t always listen to me, and he gets bored easily. Since he’s the weakest of the celestials on this plane, he’s the most vulnerable to whatever is prowling around. If I can’t persuade him to keep a low profile, he may be next on the menu—and Rahýfel may be dessert.”
“Fine. I’ll pop over to his tower and see if he’s busy.”
Bronze and I appeared in the street. A brute-force shift is cheaper than a brute-force gate, mostly because it happens much faster. A gate has to open and stabilize, and we also have to pass through it with enough margin for safety. A shift isn’t truly instantaneous, but it’s no more than a snap of the fingers.
We walked up to the side entrance—not the public, business entrance—and knocked politely. The viewport slid open.
“What do you want?” asked the eyes behind the iron frame.
“I’d like a word with Rahýfel, please.”
“He’s not here.” Slam!
Clearly, this guy was new. You’d think everyone in the building would know who I am. Or is my ego bigger than I think? Regardless, while I didn’t want to challenge a whole building devoted to wizardry, I wasn’t averse to knocking it down and questioning their ghosts.
I took a breath. Two, in fact. Deep ones.
No, we were not going to get into this fight right now. I was going to try sweet reason. Although I might quote a few verses from the Book of Threats.
I knocked again. Politely. I didn’t pound on the door or anything. The viewport slid open again.
“Are you still here?” he demanded.
“I apologize.”
“Huh?”
“It’s entirely my fault.”
“Uh, yeah. I’m sure it is.”
“I didn’t phrase my intentions clearly enough. I am looking for Rahýfel so we can have a conversation. I have things he desperately needs to know and I want you to tell me everything you know about how to find him.”
The eyes narrowed.
“Does he owe you money?” he demanded.
“No. This is a professional courtesy.”
“Wait here.” The port slammed shut again, but not with the same sense of finality. I listened, but someone had a decent privacy spell up. No sound came through it. Still, it was progress. I can be patient when there’s obviously a point.
The door opened and two wizards gestured me in. I accepted their invitation. Bronze waited by necessity; the door was too small. On the other hand, she felt the wall was too thin to stop her if she needed to make an entrance. I countered that the wall had a spell for reinforcement. She agreed, but was of the opinion there wasn’t enough of it. It was structural, not strategic. I didn’t ask how she could tell. She’s smarter than the average horse. She might be smarter than me.
My escorts wore a number of protective spells. I couldn’t take offense. I was wearing quite a few, myself. For them, it seemed normal. For me, it’s probably a result of recent paranoia-inducing issues. I might have overdone it, actually.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll add more as soon as I think of more to add.
We went upstairs to a meeting room. It occupied an entire floor in what was once one of the round towers that made up the keep. Seven more wizards waited for me there. My two escorts joined them, seating themselves around the outer edge of a round, wooden table. The table was really a long, narrow table bent around an empty, circular area, a bit like the Greek letter omega. I was shown into the middle.
I didn’t like it. It made me uncomfortable to be surrounded by wizards. To be fair, it makes me uncomfortable to be surrounded. It makes me want to seek solitude by removing whoever is surrounding me, and I was still feeling somewhat testy from my previous annoyances.
Yes, I can carry a grudge. I’m bringing home at least silver in the Olympic grudge-toting event.
“What is your business with Rahýfel?” asked the guy opposite the table’s entry gap. He was a short, stocky fellow with short-cropped black hair and an eyepatch over his right eye. A nasty scar appeared above and below the eyepatch. I wondered if it had anything to do with a shattered scrying device.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll understand when I say the discussion is not something you’ll comprehend. I’m delivering a message.”
They muttered among themselves for a moment.
“I don’t like your attitude, messenger.”
I noticed he used the term vestitor, which, taken literally, could be interpreted as one who speaks for the gods. It’s a term usually used informally to refer to a priest speaking ex cathedra, but it could be bent a little and translated to angel, in the sense of a divine messenger, depending on context. He used it in an ambivalent mode, so he could go with either meaning depending on how I took it.
I took a breath, held it, let it slowly escape.
“Sir,” I began, “I feel I should tell you many things before we continue. May I?”
“Speak.”
I bit back my first response. I am not a trained animal to be given a command. I did my best to accept it as permission, instead.
“Thank you. Noble sir,” I began, inching toward him as I spoke, “I am the avatar of the Lord of Fire and Shadow. Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to deliver a message for Rahýfel. You have no power over me, and I am in no mood to be trifled with.”
By this point, I was directly opposite him, with only the width of the narrow table between us. I put my hands on the table and leaned forward to make eye contact. At his gesture, an invisible shield of energy sprang up along his edge of the table. The table was a powerful magical device. Penetrating the shield would be difficult, but not impossible.
Magically, it would be difficult, I mean. I leaned forward, thinking along my link to my altar ego. We had a flashing interchange of thought and determined we could afford to spend the energy. I breathed on the barrier and it sparkled, sputtered, and disappeared.
It was a miracle. And, as such, didn’t register in the magic-sensitive sight of wizards. From their point of view, I breathed on a potent defensive ward and it disappeared like a soap bubble in a furnace.
“You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation,” I continued, leaning forward. “I’ll use small words. I’m more than a little pissed off. I want Rahýfel. Help me or admit you can’t—either is equally acceptable. But you will decide now.”
There were a number of people getting ready for a fight until I used That Voice. Suddenly, they knew there was some Thing standing there, glaring at their leader. Whatever it was, it was exactly that: an It. A Thing. Possibly even a god.
My altar ego pulled another trick. He put forth his power and every lantern and lamp in the room—all magical, I noted—simply went out. Nevertheless, I was still visible. I was the ghostly reflection in a sheet of glass in an otherwise pitch-dark room. Visible, but not illuminating anything. Eerie.
“Well?” I asked, and the echo ran around the room, demanding, commanding.
“He’s not here,” the leader said. His tone said he wished like hell he wasn’t.
“Go on,” I encouraged, less forcefully.
“He’s left us,” he added, speaking rapidly and gaining speed as he went. “We’re trying to find him, too! We’re running the business ourselves but he’s driven it into such debt—and you don’t care, right. Right. We don’t know where he is but we would like to. If you can help us find him, we’ll all get what we want. Or-we-can-help-you? Eitherwaywhicheveryouprefer.”
I stepped back from his arc of the table, ignoring the way individual wizards were trying to surreptitiously activate personal defensive devices. I took a slow walk in the dark around the inner perimeter, trying for a thoughtful expression. I, in fact, think it over. How do I help the celestial god of wizards, get Rahýfel off the celestial tit, and not alienate or offend a whole level of society—the magic-working caste of the Tassarian Empire?
“How much are you in debt?” I asked.
“Almost two hundred shiraks of gold!”
I recalled the Rahýfel’s lifestyle when I last visited. Yes, it would be an expensive one. One shirak was roughly fourteen pounds. Two hundred of them would be almost a ton and a half. Silver would have been impressive. But in gold?
Hey. Upstairs.
Still here.
Where the hell is Rahýfel?
I don’t know. I’m still not doing well on the omniscience front.
My response was not, strictly speaking, relevant. On the other hand, there were other ways of hunting him down. He had creditors.
“What you see before you,” I told them, “is an avatar, not the actual God of Fire and Shadow. Rather than dissolve this form only to have to re-form it, I choose to remain. Therefore, I will employ you to complete my mission. Find Rahýfel for me and I will give you two hundred shiraks of gold—and I will give you my thanks and goodwill, both of which are seldom things, and more valuable than you can know. How say you?”
They muttered to each other in the darkness, but I have good ears. They doubted they could get the money out of Rahýfel, but for that much gold, they could put in the effort to find him. One of them made whispered mention of the fact the debt wasn’t a full two hundred and was instantly shushed by his neighbor. Another observed he would happily locate anybody for that much money.
“We agree,” came the leader’s response. “We will find Rahýfel for you and you will give us the money to pay the debts.”
The power suppressing the lamps withdrew and the room seemed brighter than before.
“I accept. I shall have half sent to you immediately and the other half when you have found him. Leave word with the Valley of La Mancha, the lands of House Lucard.”
“We can absolutely do that.”
“Excellent. Thank you for your time.”
I showed myself out. Nobody seemed inclined to stop me. Nobody seemed inclined to have anything to do with me, which suited my mood perfectly.
Back at the castle, I spoke to Leisel and Hazir about dropping a couple of piles of money on the guys running Rahýfel’s old business.
What, exactly, was Rahýfel’s business? Wizardry, obviously. Potions, wands, rings, whatever? Did they do custom enchantment, or did they crank out the staples of a magical society? Healing potions, perhaps? Potions to cure diseases? Magical mirrors or crystal balls? Devices to block scrying spells, certainly. Were there magical paintbrushes? Carpentry tools? Mining equipment? Self-repairing ropes? I know I’ve seen magical clothes changing colors. What else did they make?
On the money front, how big is the enchantment business? I used to think it might be independent wizards operating as part of their caste. Maybe it is, but with some wizards banding together to create the bigger, more powerful enchantments. Maybe it’s a bigger business than I thought.
I should have taken a course in economics. Maybe I’ll eat an economist. Maybe I’ll go to back to school. Maybe I’ll take a course in economics and then eat the professor.
With Hazir and Tessera in the counting-house, counting out the money, I fired up the sand table and my brand-new Ring of Many Gates. I did a complete search for Rahýfel, but he was shielded. Well, fine. Sometimes, depending on the type of shield, it’s not effective against extradimensional approaches. I gated over to Phoebe’s world, landing in my rathole apartment hideout.
Yes, I arrived with sword drawn, visor down, and a readiness to disembowel anyone present. Just because I looked through and saw no one doesn’t mean they weren’t hiding. Or invisible. Or something.
Nobody leaped out at me. After a brief search of the apartment—there wasn’t much to search—I came to the tentative conclusion there might not be anyone lying in ambush.
Okay. So I did another search of Tauta, this time from another world. No soap. Rahýfel was using a radiant shield instead of a bubble shield. Reluctantly, I had to admit there might be other methods of hiding from a gate-search, but the fact he could use a radiative shield instead of a perimeter shield was sufficient.
I stepped back into Tauta, parked my armored butt next to the sand table, and gave myself seriously to think.
I kicked the sand table and phoned up my altar ego. He answered immediately, which was nice.
“Safe spot?” I asked.
“Relatively. I’m trying to monitor his movements. He has his favorite game trails and watering holes. They’re all good places to soak up untuned belief.”
“Untuned belief?”
“Everybody has their superstitions. They believe in things even if they don’t have anyone in particular to believe in. I’m not sure, yet, what his favorite flavors are.”
“It matters?”
“It would give me a clue as to his general nature. If he prefers the intense emotional surges of a bordello, for example, or the scattered instances of personal agony, or just the way people sometimes project raw hope without a formal prayer. All these things are edible to us.”
